


Love You to Death

by mandychu



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Also there's Princess Bride references, And by that I literally mean the dog dies, Everything's fucked, F/M, I have a dark sense of humor (just fyi), I wrote some of this when I was drunk, Original Character(s), Teen Angst, There's an old yeller situation, Type O Negative lyrics, dysfunctional family relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-10 10:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12297663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandychu/pseuds/mandychu
Summary: Claudia Phantomhive is a mortal woman who seeks adventure and autonomy. Undertaker is a death god with a curious and compassionate nature. Will their love be enough to blur the line between life and death? Or will it crumble beneath a complex game of wrath, pride, and revenge? And there's Type O Negative lyrics at the beginning of each chapter? Nice . . .





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just gonna drop a TW here for depression and suicide, so be warned.
> 
> This is my own, loose interpretation of who Claudia Phantomhive is, and her relationship with Undertaker, based on what little information we have at the moment. (In other words, artistic liberties have been taken.) Naturally, as we progressively find out more and more about these characters in cannon, I'm sure I'll be dead wrong about lots of things. But hey, it's only fanfiction.
> 
> I chose to include Type O Negative lyrics in this story as I came up with the title. "Love You to Death" is a Type O Negative song, and it also happens to work well with a love story between a mortal and a death god. That's when I realized that a lot of Type O Negative's music could work with this fic, which is when I got the idea to include lyrics. 
> 
> If you're into metal/hard rock (especially from the '90s) and you've yet to listen to these guys, I highly reccommend checking them out. In my opinion, they sort of bridge the gap between classic metal and nu metal, with strong post-punk and goth rock influences. A lot of their music is dark, and focuses on subjects such as love, death, revenge, despair, etc. In other words, perfect for this fic.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this!

_“I will never again feel your sun upon my face_

_Or the comfort of a grave_

_I am not alive and I am not dead_

_This is Hell on earth_

_How can I possibly explain this eternal youth?_

_When I can do nothing, but sit by_

_As my loves grow old and wither_

_And with each of them, take a fragment of my heart_

_And prolong this endless winter”_

_-Suspended in Dusk,_ Type O Negative

The silver light of the full moon filtered through wispy, black clouds that blanketed the night sky like cobwebs. Trees with gnarly branches and a dearth of leaves towered over the gloomy, cloaked figure who traversed the forest with a singular, definitive purpose, armed with nothing but a pistol and sheer determination.

She wore her favorite dress; a monochromatic striped frock that was adorned with ruffles, and had a bustle in the back. Her slate-colored hair was meticulously placed in an updo, which began to come apart soon after she began her midnight trek through the surrounding forest of her manor. Around her shoulders was a black cloak, which she wore for concealing her identity and blending into her environment; as opposed to protecting herself from the elements. She carried nothing but an ornate pistol in her gloved hand, and a sense of utter hopelessness in her heart.

Her destination was a dilapidated, long forgotten bridge that had all but completely crumbled over the twisting, surging river that cut through the forest. Throughout her childhood, it had been her favorite spot to remove herself from the rest of the world. A spot to read, to write, to cry, to ponder, to merely exist. To her, it only seemed fitting she meet her demise in the place that had offered her so much comfort in life.

To die in her favorite frock, in her favorite hideaway in the forest, with nothing but the October moonlight and the autumn-induced decay of the forest by her side. To die alone is no one’s wish, but to her, a peaceful death alone was far preferable to a lifetime of misery in the companionship of those who did not love her, and whom she did not love in return.

Her feet grew weary with each step she took towards her finality. Goosebumps appeared on her skin with each gust of cold, unforgiving wind that bit into her. Hot tears rolled down from her sapphire eyes in response to the internal and external pain she faced. This was good. She wished for this experience to be painful. To squeeze each feeling, each sensation, no matter how unpleasant, out of her last few hours and cherish the mere sense of being. To die as she lived.

The dilapidated bridge was within her sight; its grey stone crumbling like an ancient ruin. Perhaps it truly was an ancient ruin. The river beneath it coursed with less ferocity than usual, as if it were mirroring the peace of death. The river’s murky water reflected the pale moonlight like jewels.

She navigated her way across the untrustworthy bridge with great care, though her oxymoronic intent was not lost on her. What difference did it make if she fell to her death, or if she simply shot herself? She likened herself to Ophelia, in that she was destined for a watery grave regardless.

She gingerly loaded the pistol with a single bullet. This is it. She held it to her temple, shivering at the icy metal that kissed her skin. No last words. No farewells. No tears. Simply a quick, unremarkable demise.

“Excuse me.” a raspy voice interrupted. “Could you spell your first and last name for me?”

Had she been any more startled, she would have accidentally pulled the trigger right then and there. Instead, she froze. Her eyes slowly fluttered open, to see a figure clad in black before her.

The most noticeable aspect of him was his long, silver hair, which partially concealed his face, like a curtain around a deathbed. His unearthly, glowing eyes were the color of absinthe, and were hidden behind a thick pair of spectacles. As her eyes began to re-adjust to the darkness, she noticed how smartly dressed he was. A crisp, white shirt tied with a black cravat beneath a stately, black trench-coat. Much of this enigmatic figure was left to speculation. Was he old or young? Dead or alive? Human or not?

And in his hand . . . what the _fuck_ was that in his hand?

She was rendered speechless for a split-second, fearful of the mysterious being before her, until she managed to sputter out, “P-Pardon?!”

“Your name, my dear lady. May I trouble you for its spelling?” From the breast-pocket of his coat, he pulled a small booklet and leafed through it, as he rested what appeared to be a sickly combination between a skeleton and a scythe in the crook of his arm. “I just like to be certain I have the right one.”

Her breathing grew uneven. “Who the hell are you?!” she demanded. Instinctively, the aim of her pistol turned from her head to the strange man in front of her. (Was it even a man? Was it even human?)

He merely smiled in response. “Well, isn’t that a good sign? See, you’ve got some fight in you left after all. That means you don’t _really_ want to die, do you?” He cleared his throat. “Now, could you please spell your name for me? As I said earlier, I like to be thorough. Especially with long last names like these.”

She gulped. “What do you need my name for?!” She endeavored to sound authoritative, but the tremors in her voice gave away her fear.

His demeanor grew slightly frustrated. “I already told you. I want to make _absolute_ sure you are who you are. Last thing I need is to get caught in some mix-up. The paperwork would be endless. Not to mention, I could get demoted, which in turn, could lead to losing the rights to my death scythe. Can’t have that, can we?”

She blinked. What the hell is he talking about? “What the hell are you talking about?”

A sigh emanated from the silver-haired being. “Can we put the pistol down? I find that productive conversations don’t occur when weapons are placed between the two parties.”

She motioned to what rested in the crook of his arm. “That looks like a weapon to me. You put yours down first.”

Another sigh. “Fine, have it your way. Look, I’m simply here to talk.” He obliged, placing the ostentatious scythe on the ground beside him. “Can I talk to you?”

“Who . . . _What_ are you?” She made no efforts to oblige her unusual counterpart.  

He grew increasingly discontented, as he placed the small booklet back in the breast-pocket of his coat. “Can you _please_ put that thing down? I worry more for your safety than I do my own.”

“Answer my question!”

“Answer mine! How do you spell your name?”

A moment of tense silence transpired.

She was the first to break it, as a tiny, cocky smirk appeared on her youthful face—a far cry from the look of despair she wore minutes earlier. “It appears we’ve reached an impasse.”

He folded his arms. “Indeed. You want to know _what_ I am, and I simply want the correct spelling of your name. Apparently, from your perspective, this situation requires implements of destruction.”

“Perhaps we can reach a compromise?” she suggested.

He scoffed. “I won’t compromise for _shit_ until I know for certain that you’re not going to hurt yourself.”

“What a gentleman.” she muttered. “Why are you so unconcerned with your own wellbeing, stranger? Are you a ghost?”

“Oh, if only.” he responded, wistfully. “Alas, I am a grim reaper, doomed to collect the souls of the dead, until my own is finally allowed to rest.”

Her face lit up in delight upon finding out the answer to her question. “Ah, the grim reaper! Hence the death-scythe. I should have known.”

“Eh,” he shrugged. “I’m not _the_ grim reaper, per se. Just _a_ grim reaper.” He politely bowed to the lady before him. “Undertaker, at your service. That’s what they call me, anyway.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Undertaker.” she responded as she continued to point her pistol at him. “So, there’s more than one grim reaper?”

“Oh, indeed.” A wry grin appeared on his face. “Should you choose to go through with your plan tonight, you’ll learn all about it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Undertaker adjusted his spectacles, which sharply reflected the moonlight above them. “It means, dear lady, that those who commit suicide are doomed to this vocation. Of course, there are those who rather enjoy this way of living—if you can call it _living.”_

She cocked her head to the side. “Are you alive?”

Undertaker laughed. “Good question! On the inside, no, definitely not. This job is far too grueling and stressful.”

She found that rather funny, and burst into laughter.

Undertaker merely grinned in response. “See? If you had shot yourself a few minutes ago, you wouldn’t have been able to laugh at my joke. Aren’t you glad you were alive to hear that?”

Her laughter died down as a realization dawned on her. “I suppose . . . So, if _you’re_ a grim reaper, then does that mean you committed suicide as well?” She winced. “My apologies, I realize that’s an awfully personal question.”

He waved his hand, reassuringly. “No matter, I think you and I are past the point of small talk. Though it would be nice to know how to spell your name. But yes, I did commit suicide, and now I’m a grim reaper. If this new job opportunity appeals to you in some fashion, by all means, go through with your plans tonight. However, I strongly _do not_ recommend it.”

She lowered the aim of her pistol. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“That your life was so unbearable that you felt your only option was to end it.”

Undertaker shook his head. “Don’t pity me, I’m already dead. You, on the other hand, there is still hope for. One way or another, you _will_ die. No need to rush it.”

She looked at the ground. “I suppose.”

Undertaker stepped closer to the lady before him and offered his hand. It was pale, with spindly fingers, and knobby knuckles that resembled the gnarled tree branches that surrounded them. His nails were long and black, and his skin was cold to the touch. “May I speak with you, my dear lady? I want to know what could cause someone so young and beautiful to feel as if their life has no value.”

Warily, she took the reaper’s hand, and peered into his glowing eyes. For an otherworldly being with such an unsettling appearance, his demeanor was nothing but compassionate. In a way, he was quite human.

The two carefully exited the bridge and made their way to the riverbank. Undertaker removed his coat and laid it on the grass for his companion to sit on, as he took a seat next to her. She wrapped herself up in her cloak, like a baby. The discomfort of the cold air she relished in earlier turned into a simple nuisance.

“I must say,” Undertaker began as he plopped down next to his new companion. “you were quite calm and dignified. I almost envy you. From what I remember, I was the exact opposite when I chose to go through with my own demise. A sobbing, pitiful mess. Really, it was quite embarrassing.”

An expression of slight puzzlement crossed her face. “Uh . . . thank you?”

“Of course, if you were that calm, then that’s a bad sign, I suppose. That means you were quite firm in your decision. I dare say, if I hadn’t intervened, you would have gone through with it.”

“I dare say, you’re right.” she agreed.

Undertaker glanced at his companion. She rested her chin on her knees as she hugged them tightly, presumably for warmth. A tinge of sadness emerged within him as he wished he could embrace her to keep her warm. Alas, his flesh was cold as ice, and he would do more harm than good if he tried to hold her.

“Are you glad you’re still alive?” he inquired.

“I dunno.” she muttered. “I suppose I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

Undertaker laid back on the grass and looked at the sky above him. Most of the stars were concealed behind a layer of dark, ominous clouds, but the full moon remained as bright as ever. “I wish I had someone there to talk me out of it. When I did it, I mean.”

She turned her head to look at the reaper next to her. “Hmm?”

“Instead, all I got was a reaper who seemed happy to have a new trainee beneath them. Couldn’t see why this sort of existence didn’t appeal to me. I suppose he was one of the ones who truly enjoyed this job.”

“What happened to him?”

“He retired.”

She gave a quizzical expression. “He died?”

“Same difference.” Undertaker gave a shrug. “His soul is at rest, and he’s no longer a reaper. Some would say he’s dead, others would say he’s retired. It’s all a matter of perspective, I suppose.”

“Which would you prefer?” she asked.

“Oh, I want to die.”

“Me too.”

They shared a moment of laughter.

“I suppose that means we have common grounds for a friendship, then?” she smiled.

“If I become your friend, will you stay alive?” Undertaker extended his hand, like he was about to make a deal.

She raised an eyebrow. “What if I’m interested in becoming a reaper?”

Undertaker rolled his glowing eyes. “Trust me, you do _not_ want this life. It’s an endless stream of bureaucracy, paperwork, deadlines, promotions, demotions, and strict professionalism. There’s no room for friendship, fun, laughter, or anything that made life as a human worth living. I mean it when I say I’m dead on the inside.”

She gave an expression of sympathy. “You don’t like anything about your job?”

“I like my personally modified death-scythe. I like my spectacles. That’s about it.”

She extended her hand. “Tell you what, if I stay alive, will you be my friend?”

Undertaker gave a small chuckle. “Very well, but don’t think I didn’t catch you trying to pass _my_ idea off as yours.” He took her hand and gave it a single-pumped handshake.

“What can I say? I’m a shrewd businessman. _Businesswoman,_ actually.” she grinned.

“Ah, you’re a businesswoman?” Undertaker rolled to his side and rested his head in his hand, intrigued.

“Well, I _would_ be, given the opportunity. My father introduced me to his duties as an earl. You know, managing building projects, settling disputes within the village, ensuring the welfare of those who live there. As he aged, I helped him with his responsibilities. Really, it was the only way I got to spend time with him. These days, I’m all but the official head of the family.”

Undertaker was taken aback. “Goodness! And you were going to kill yourself? Did you have a plan as to who would take over?”

“My fiancé, Victor, would have. He’s going to, anyway.” She wavered for a moment. “Well, he’s getting the title. Most likely, I’d still run it. Just . . . without credit. Or a proper salary.”

“That sounds frustrating. Did you think your fiancé would have been able to assume your responsibilities in his grief-stricken state? Had you died, that is.”

She snorted. “Don’t make me laugh. Our engagement is out of anything but love. It’s purely necessity. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Undertaker sat up. “So you don’t love him?”

“Of course not. I’m being forced into this engagement for two reasons. One, in the event that my father perishes, his titles can be handed down to someone, and two, so that I can produce an heir.”

Undertaker gave an expression of sympathy. “That sounds miserable.”

“Now you can see why I want to die.”

“Certainly, but I can assure you once more, it’s not worth it.” Undertaker paused for a moment. “What of your mother?”

“She died during childbirth. I never knew her. Frankly, I never had much of a relationship with my father, outside of work. My butler practically raised me.”

“Ah, where would we be in this world without a good butler?” Undertaker grinned.

She looked at the ground again. “My predicament with my engagement . . . it’s what every lady of my age and status goes through. I don’t know why I’m so preoccupied with such foolish ideas, like marrying for love. I ought to endure this for the good of my family.”

“I dare say, none of this sounds like it’ll truly benefit you or your family. It sounds like you can run the family business on your own. I don’t see how having a fiancé would help.”

She began to fidget with the hem of her cloak. “Indeed, but . . . well . . . you know why things are the way they are.” She gestured to herself. “If I had been a son instead of a daughter, I would be in a much different predicament.”

“I’m aware.” Undertaker replied. “But it’s never too soon to break a useless tradition. Especially in the name of practicality.”

She gave a small scoff. “Well, aren’t you progressive?”

“I’m dead.”

Another chorus of laughter emanated from the reaper and human, sitting side-by-side at the riverbank. They gazed into one another’s eyes as their laughter died down, and said nothing for a few seconds.

“How old are you?” Undertaker inquired, softly.

“Twenty.” she responded.

“Bloody hell. Far too young to die.” Undertaker shook his head. “Please stay alive. Just for me? I promise, things’ll improve. One way or another.”

“Very well, if you insist. Though I’m not entirely convinced things will improve.” She sighed as she looked up at the night sky. “It’s quite late. I ought to head back home.”

“Do you live far from here?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll walk you home. Let it never be said that I allowed a lady walk alone in the woods.”

Undertaker helped her up, and draped his black trench-coat around her shoulders for extra warmth.

“C-L-A-U-D-I-A.” she spelled out.

“Pardon?” Undertaker gave an expression of puzzlement.

“P-H-A-N-T-O-M-H-I-V-E.” she continued. “Pronounced Phantom-, like a ghost, and -hive, like a beehive. That’s my name.”

“Claudia Phantomhive?” Undertaker repeated.

“Is that the name you were looking for?”

“Indeed.” Undertaker smiled. “Thank you for spelling it for me. I kept forgetting where the first H goes when I filled out my initial paperwork. Kept spelling it at ‘Panthomhive.’ As in ‘pants.’”

Claudia giggled. “You’re not the first person to make that mistake. Certainly not the last.”

As the two made their exit, a crow landed on the crumbling stone bridge, eyeing the human locking arms with a reaper, and strolling into the woods together. The hungry crow had been too late to catch his dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to drop a quick warning for lime (but not lemon). Of course, for those of you who enjoy lime, then I suppose this isn't a warning, but a sign of good things to come? (No pun intended.)

_“I beg to serve, your wish is my law,_

_Now close those eyes and let me love you to death._

_Shall I prove I mean what I’m saying?_

_Begging,_

_I say the beast inside of me is gonna get ya, get ya, get . . ._

_Let me, love you to . . ._

_Let me love you to death.”_

_-Love You to Death,_ Type O Negative

Within the following year, they met with more frequency. Undertaker used every spare moment he had to check up on Claudia’s well-being. Her depression subsided, but did not dissipate. However, Undertaker’s presence kept her mind at ease, if only for short bursts of time. Her concerns for her family’s welfare, her father’s duties as an earl, her impending ~~doom~~ marriage to Victor, and other responsibilities felt like distant memories in the company of her new and only friend.

Undertaker explained the ins and outs of reaper-dom to his human companion, who soon began to shadow him on assignments. Having been on the verge of death herself, watching another human die from a distance wasn’t as distressing as it would be to most. They watched cinematic records together as a way to pass the time by one another’s side; Undertaker saddened, Claudia enraptured by the bygone lives of ordinary humans.

The words of his superiors, and the motto of the grim reapers played in the back of Undertaker’s mind, like a cross between a mantra and a warning. _“Don’t ask questions. Don’t get involved. Do as you are told. Bringing your emotions to work is a waste of time.”_

And yet, each time he glanced at Claudia, each time he heard her melodious laugh, each time his frigid skin brushed up against her warm, zoetic hands, or stole a glance at her dazzling, sapphire eyes, inside his mind, he could feel those rules crumbling away, like the stone bridge they met at.

In a bold move, unbeknownst to his superiors, Undertaker decided to open his own shop in London. He knew it would only be a matter of time before his attachment to Claudia, a living human being, would be found out, and he needed an exit strategy. Though he knew that after such an act, his soul would never be allowed to rest, he’d be content with such a thing if he had her by his side—if only for a moment in the vast expanse of his existence.

As a funeral director, he would make a decent living. The profession was one of the few things Undertaker remembered clearly from his time as a living human, and he knew with his added experience as a reaper, he’d excel. Granted, he wouldn’t be remotely suitable as the husband of a noblewoman, but he wanted to demonstrate his skill and willingness to contribute to the only woman in his life. He would do anything— _anything_ for her sake. He would leave the life of a reaper behind without hesitation. He would sell his wares, live amongst the living, abandon his hopes and dreams of resting in peace one day, _anything._

However, there were major roadblocks ahead of him. For one thing, Undertaker had yet to confess his true feelings for Claudia. For another, she was presently engaged to Victor, though she endeavored to put off the marriage for as long as possible. As if that weren’t enough, a new duty befell the young noble; one that threatened her mortality more than anything previously.

Within that year, Claudia’s father passed away before her marriage to Victor, and family secrets and responsibilities were passed on to the present and sole heir, along with (finally) an official title. The Queen’s watchdog. Her quick wit, tenacity, and, to a certain degree, her recklessness allowed her to assume the role with ease.

Being the Queen’s watchdog was comparable to the jobs of reapers, in that some loathed their predicament, and bemoaned the title being thrust upon them against their will. Others, however, took to the duty like a crow to flight, and reveled in the adventure of policing England’s underground. Claudia belonged to the latter group, and the feeling of abysmal despair that plagued her a year ago felt increasingly more foreign to the new watchdog.

Much in the same fashion of Claudia in relation to Undertaker’s reaper duties, Undertaker shadowed Claudia during her own investigations. The two became unofficial partners in crime, and between Undertaker’s experience and Claudia’s fortitude, they were almost unstoppable.

******

Increasingly, Undertaker chose to spend his nights at his new shop, rather than the housing provided for him at work. Living and sleeping in the human world, away from the prying eyes of his superiors, was far preferable to him. Besides that, he was expecting someone special tonight.

Undertaker had fallen asleep with his head on his desk, as the lone candle that illuminated the coffin-filled room reduced to a waxy stump. A warm, gloved hand enveloping his bare, icy ones drew him out of the lull of sleep.

“Undertaker? I’m here.”

The scent of gunpowder and perfume hit his senses as his distinct, chartreuse eyes, surrounded by a thick row of ivory lashes, fluttered open. Claudia was before him. “Mmm. You’re here early.” Undertaker moaned as he rubbed his eyes and put his spectacles back on.

 Claudia’s expression was severe. “I killed him. I just . . . fucking killed him.”

What a thing to spring on someone as they woke. Undertaker, his vision now rendered clearer due to his spectacles, could see what a mess his beloved was. Beneath her black cloak was a midnight blue dress drenched in the color of rust. Undoubtedly, it was blood. Her charcoal-colored hair was mussed, her cheeks were scarlet, and her cerulean eyes were filled with tears. “What happened?” he whispered.

She bit her lip as she plopped down on a nearby coffin, uncaring of who or what was in there. “Human trafficker. It was an open-and-shut case. Honestly, I don’t know why the Yard didn’t handle it on their own. Perhaps they simply wished to make a mockery of me, hoping I’d fail. It’s not as if I’ve made any new friends in this position.”

Undertaker chimed in. “Perhaps they were too stupid to solve the case on their own.”

“I don’t know.” Claudia shook her head and gazed at the floor. “It was such a simple, straightforward case. The effort made by the culprits to cover their tracks was pitiful. Even a child could see through them . . .” She nearly choked on her words. “A child . . .”

Undertaker scooted his chair closer to his beloved and held her arms firmly. “What happened?”

A single tear rolled down her cheek, leaving a track of black mascara in its wake. “I had seen this sort of thing with adults many times before . . . but . . . they were selling little children, Undertaker. No bigger than twelve, I reckon.” Claudia’s voice broke even further. “For all kinds of things. Slaves, prostitutes . . . _parts.”_ She broke down. Claudia leaped into Undertaker’s embrace, crawling on his lap as she did so, and wept into his shoulder.

Undertaker gently rubbed her back with his icy fingers, uncaring of the blood that likely transferred from her clothing to his. He was rendered speechless, yet emotional as ever.

Claudia continued. “I couldn’t just . . . let this _go._ Not in my city. Not in my country. A more rational person would have turned those bastards . . . _that_ bastard, the ringleader . . . into Scotland Yard, where they could handle the rest, but . . .” She took a few minutes to allow herself to shed some more tears. “I was appalled by his mere existence. The fact that our society collectively allowed scum like him to breathe our air alone disgusted me to the core. I didn’t see a human being, when I shot him point-blank in the forehead. I saw a rat. I saw filth that needed to be exterminated on the spot.”

“You did what a sane, rational person would do. You’re the Queen’s watchdog, and you acted accordingly. You’ve no reason to be defensive.” Undertaker reassured her.

She took a minute to collect herself. “I need to hide away for a while. I don’t think my mansion is safe, and I think it’s best I disappear for a bit until this all subsides. At least until I find out how Her Majesty wishes to proceed . . . assuming she wishes to do so in my favor.”

“My doors are open for you, always.” Undertaker cupped the chin of his beloved. “Stay here as long as you like.”

Claudia buried her face in the crook of Undertaker’s neck and cried herself to sleep. Undertaker scooped her up, and took her to the modest flat above his shop. It was by no means appropriate for a noblewoman to sleep in, but it’ll have to do. He laid her in his bed, her slumbering body bathed in autumnal moonlight, as he took a seat next to her.

An hour later, she awoke. “Mmm . . . where am I?” she groaned.

“Still at my shop. This is the flat upstairs that I told you about.” Undertaker looked at the floor. “It’s not much to look at. I’m sorry.”

“It’s no matter.” Claudia scooted in bed, making room for her companion. “Any place with you in it is a palace. Won’t you lie down with me?”

A sense of nervousness befell Undertaker. His greatest love? Wanting to sleep next to him? Was _he_ the one who was dreaming? He took his spectacles off and placed them on the shipping-crate-turned-bedside-table. “Certainly.” He laid back in bed, next to Claudia.

Claudia leaned in and kissed him earnestly. Her life could be over any second, by way of street justice, or per the orders of the Queen. Now was not the time to mince words or feelings with the death god that had shown her compassion in her darkest moment a year ago.

Undertaker froze. He had forgotten the last time he had been kissed. In fact, he had long forgotten most of the pleasures of human life, kissing included. How is it done, again? Does one move their lips around, or simply stay still? Do the eyes stay open or shut? What does one do with their hands? Or legs? Or . . . other body parts that Undertaker had long forgotten about?

Claudia pulled back. “I’m sorry. Is it too much? Should I stop?”

“I . . . I . . .” Undertaker presently couldn’t utter many syllables beyond those two.

“I’m sor—”

“I-I love you.” Undertaker sputtered out, clumsily.

Claudia’s azure eyes grew in amazement. Did he really just say that? “Undertaker . . .”

Undertaker’s luminous eyes slammed shut. “Oh . . . how embarrassing . . .” He lifted his hands to his face in shame. “I’ve made an absolute fool of myself, haven’t I?”

Claudia’s petite hands pulled Undertaker’s away from his face, and cupped his chin, drawing his face closer. “Indeed, you have. But it’s quite alright, because I love you too.”

Before Undertaker could process what was happening, more kissing ensued.

As Undertaker emerged from his stupor, his movements began to mirror Claudia’s. Ah, yes. It was all coming back to him. The way his icy lips moved in accordance with those of his newfound lover. The way he embraced her, pulling her in so that not an inch of space was between them. The way his hands wandered . . .

Claudia broke the kiss. “I need air.” she huffed.

Undertaker looked down, suddenly aware of the amount of blood that transferred from her dress to his suit an hour or so earlier. “We’re drenched in blood, my dear.”

“Sorry . . .” she whispered. “It’s not very romantic.”

“It’s no matter.” Undertaker noticed her crimson cheeks, and could easily feel heat emanating from her body, as if she were about to combust. “You look far too hot. Perhaps we should get out of these clothes.” Undertaker suggested innocently.

A saucy expression appeared on Claudia’s face, as a breathy chuckled escaped her lips. “Oh, _yes. Hell_ yes.”

Undertaker suddenly realized what salacious comments he had opened himself up to in his previous statement, and what Claudia meant by hers. He gave a naughty chuckle. “Necrophilia is a crime, you know.”

Claudia rolled on top of him, straddling the death god, and removed the Phantomhive ring from her finger, placing it next to Undertaker’s spectacles on the makeshift bedside table. “Very well, I suppose I’m a criminal now. I’m already a murderer.”

She used her teeth to remove her gloves, and oh _god_ did she look alluring. As if that alone wasn’t enough to make her lover crazy, she slowly and methodically began unbuttoning, un-fastening, and untying her clothing; making each second feel like hours.

Undertaker grew rigid. What exactly does one do with a willing, soon-to-be-nude partner in bed, again? It had been so long since he had done it last, back when he was alive, and he had been dead more years than he ever was alive. Should he say anything to her, or keep quiet? Should he keep kissing her, or is the kissing part done? Should he lay there, or remove his clothing as well?

He winced. The thought of Claudia seeing him without clothing troubled him. He looked like exactly what he was. A dead man, but unable to rest. Not rotting, but cold and stiff, touched by rigor mortis. In speaking of stiff . . .

Claudia was down to her once-white, blood-stained corset and underskirt. “Are you alright, Undertaker? Do you wish for me to stop?”

Undertaker blinked a few times, his vision hazy. Of the sheer amount of weapons Claudia hid beneath her clothing, he had no idea. She had sewn in special pockets, holsters, and wore special garter-belts for small pistols and knives all over her underclothing. She could fight someone _right now,_ if need be.

“Undertaker?” she gently cupped his face with her hand. A sigh escaped her lips. “Does the aspect of necrophilia truly bother you? By all means, we can stop if you wish.”

He shook his head. “No, no. I just . . . don’t know what I’m doing. And there are so many rules forbidding this. And I’m dead. And this is probably wrong on so many levels, but . . . I don’t give a damn . . .”

Claudia raised an eyebrow. “Is this your first time?”

“I don’t recall. I think I did it back when I was alive, but . . . I truly don’t remember . . .”

Claudia smiled. “No matter. It’s _my_ first, so we’ll be lost and befuddled together.”

Undertaker reached one of his icy hands out to caress his lover’s face, as the other went to work on untying his black cravat and unbuttoning his shirt. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, my dear.”

******

Any of Undertaker’s prior concerns about intimacy turned out to be benign. Claudia said nothing of his corpse-like body but tenderness and affection, expressed in both words and actions. She seemed to enjoy herself, and likewise, so did he.

Claudia’s dark hair cascaded down her bare shoulders like a veil as she rested her head on his pale chest. Ever so faintly, she could hear the weakest, most delicate heartbeat, barely clinging to the notion of life. She shivered, being so physically close to the reaper without clothing, but the emotional gains she received from this closeness greatly outweighed the costs.

Undertaker’s mindset was quite different. He gathered as much of the blankets as he could, and wrapped his lover in a bundle. Claudia needed warmth, and sleep, and a home away from home, and a shoulder to cry on, and a friend, and a lover, and Undertaker was more than willing to provide these things for her, and so much more.

His life as a reaper was over as he knew it, that much was certain. It would only be a matter of time before he was found out. Perhaps it would be best to quit while he was ahead, and beat his superiors to the punch. Beyond never being allowed to rest in peace for eternity, he knew nothing of what consequences lie ahead of him. Would he be thrown in prison? Tortured? Or simply let go? No reaper dared rebel against their superiors, and those who did so much as toe that line had never been seen or heard from again.

He gazed at the love of his life (or lack thereof), fast asleep in the bundle he crafted for her. She was everything to him. There was absolutely no way he could jeopardize this. His best option was to play it safe.

Deserting the reapers is the coward’s way out, but if it entailed the safekeeping of his relationship, he’d take it. It was the least confrontational route out of all. Of course, he’d have to give up his spectacles. Would he be alright going about the world with little to no sight? Would he be able to stand only seeing Claudia’s face through hazy, blurred vision? Perhaps, so long as he could feel her warmth, and hear her laugh.

His personally modified death-scythe, that’d have to be given up. Undertaker grew tense, as he recalled Claudia’s words from earlier. _“I don’t think my mansion is safe, and I think it’s best I disappear for a bit until this all subsides. At least until I find out how Her Majesty wishes to proceed . . . assuming she wishes to do so in my favor.”_

It’ll be a cold day in Hell before Undertaker gave up his only means of defending his beloved from harm. No, the death-scythe will remain by his side, no matter what. _He_ will remain by _her_ side, no matter what.


	3. Chapter 3

_“A pair of souls become undone_

_Where were two now one_

_Divided by this wall of death_

_I soon will join you yet_

_With my blood, I’ll find your love_

_You found the strength to end your life_

_As you did—so shall I_

_Oh no_

_Please don’t go_

_Please don’t go”_

_-Bloody Kisses,_ Type O Negative

 

Much to his joy and her chagrin, Claudia’s marriage to Victor occurred in haste within the next nine months. It was a quick ceremony with few guests, and Claudia couldn’t even be bothered to take his surname. Nonetheless, Victor was beside himself in happiness. His fiancée was suddenly so eager to marry him, and he was blind as to why, until he noticed a distinct change in her health over the next few months. His suspicions immediately deepened when he found out she was pregnant, though they slept in separate bedrooms since day one of their marriage.

Being a somewhat benevolent man, he publicly said nothing of Claudia’s infidelity, nor of her illegitimate child. In retaliation, he claimed each accomplishment of Claudia’s within the Phantomhive estate, and as watchdog, as his own. He maintained tight control over their finances, social life, and endeavored to prohibit Claudia from leaving the manor—sometimes under the threat of violence, which was almost laughable to the policewoman of the underworld.

Their arguments were always the same. Some harsh words, some yelling, some threats, perhaps a good shove from Victor. Upon that, Claudia would aim her pistol at her husband, and in this manner, the issue was resolved. Before long, they drove each other into the arms of another—Claudia to Undertaker, and Victor to the nearest brothel.

******

A strikingly pregnant Claudia sat confidently in a regal-looking chair in the guest-bedroom-turned-nursery of the Phantomhive manor, much like a queen sitting in her throne. Undertaker kneeled by her side; his cold, dead hands tenderly feeling Claudia’s abdomen for the life growing within her. No one thought such a thing possible, a reaper possessing the ability to have a child with a human, and yet, here they were.

By this time, Claudia Phantomhive’s name was spread far and wide throughout the world of reapers as the woman who could achieve the impossible. The woman who could seduce a death god away from his eternal rest. Though it was not just the shinigami who knew her name, but other beings that were not of this world as well, angels and demons alike.

Undertaker, too, grew to a legendary status. Though he loathed his work, it was undeniable that he was nothing short of a phenomenal reaper. And yet, he chose a mere human over his devotion to skillfully collecting souls. He abandoned eternal rest in the name of love.

A single tear shed down his face as he felt some movement within his beloved. His child? Was this really happening, or was he imagining it? “I never thought it possible.” he whispered.

Claudia’s hand felt like a pleasant beam of sunlight as she gently held that of her lover’s. “The doctor says everything looks healthy. Of course, I didn’t tell them the truth about the baby’s father, but . . .” she trailed off, not wanting to state the obvious.

“What will you name it?” Undertaker inquired.

“Well, if it’s a boy, I’d like to name it after you.” Claudia replied.

Undertaker got a laugh out of that. “You would name a child Undertaker?!”

“No!” Claudia giggled. “I meant your real name. What is it, anyway? We've been on intimate terms for quite some time, and I’ve no idea. Really, now that I’ve said that out loud, it’s rather embarrassing, isn’t it?”

Undertaker shook his head. “No, what’s embarrassing is that I don’t remember my own name.”

Claudia’s face turned colorless. “You what?!”

Undertaker couldn’t help but laugh at her reaction. “It’s true, I’m afraid I cannot recall my name.”

Claudia couldn’t say much beyond, “H-How?!”

“Well, I’ve been dead for ages, much longer than my time alive. I don’t remember much from those days. Only bits and pieces, like a dream. During our training as reapers, we’re encouraged to forget about our old lives. Nostalgia is only a distraction, anyway. Besides that, because all of us killed ourselves to get where we are today, most of us were perfectly content with forgetting our old lives, and how miserable they were.”

Claudia blinked a few times. “How saddening . . .” she muttered.

Undertaker gave a reassuring chuckle. “It’s no matter, my love. Human minds are simply not built to function for as long as I’ve been around, nor are they built to retain unimportant details. Think how much of your own life you have already forgotten, and it’s not even over. Do you remember what you were doing exactly a week ago, at this exact time? Two weeks ago? Three? Memories are ephemeral things.” Undertaker paused, curiosity taking hold in his mind, like a small spark that starts a great fire. “Why did you wait until now to ask?”

Claudia stammered a bit. “I . . . don’t know. I thought maybe your name was top secret. Beyond that, I didn’t wish to pry. I figured you must have had a tragic life if you ended it willingly, and I thought forcing you to talk about such things would make you relive that pain.”

“Well, that just proves my point, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose . . .” Claudia trailed off, feeling uneasy. She wondered what else Undertaker had forgotten about.

Claudia’s inner turmoil did not go unnoticed by Undertaker, who gently cupped her chin and asked, “What’s troubling you?”

“Nothing.” she lied.

Undertaker was unsatisfied. “That’s not true. Something is wrong. Are you feeling alright, my love?”

Claudia looked down and fiddled with the Phantomhive ring, focusing on the way the jewel catches in the light. “I just . . .” She gulped, not knowing how to put this delicately. “How do I know you won’t forget me after I’m gone?”

Undertaker’s gleaming eyes grew wide in trepidation. Such a thing didn’t even occur to him. To forget the greatest love of his existence? It was unthinkable. And yet . . . had he done it before? He had already forgotten so much. Perhaps there was a love of his life that had escaped his memory. Perhaps he even had children that he had no recollection of. If he had a lover and children, then why did he kill himself? His memories were like a broken puzzle with scattered and missing pieces, never to be recovered.

The only syllable he could whisper to even remotely articulate the blend of emotions he experienced was, “Gone?”

“Yes, when I die. I _will_ die one day. What will become of me? What will become of you?”

Undertaker was practically shell-shocked. “Your soul will be collected and . . . that’ll be it. You’ll be at rest for eternity.”

“Will I see you again?”

“I do not know.”

The two were silent for a moment, mulling over the impending dilemma in their minds.

Claudia bit her lip. She had an idea, but she already knew Undertaker would disapprove, for this was the topic of their first discussion. Regardless, she pressed on, and suggested, “What if I were to become a reaper?”

Undertaker narrowed his gaze and stood up straight, as if he could wield any authority over the Lady Phantomhive. (He couldn’t.) “Out of the question.” he replied, sternly.

“It’s the only way to ensure that we’d be together forever. To keep what we have intact.”

Undertaker shook his head, feeling borderline appalled at Claudia’s idea. “What of our child? Who will raise it?”

Claudia’s face expression was blank. “Why can’t we?”

Undertaker blinked a few times. His mouth hung open as he stood motionless. The reasons, of which there were many, were painfully obvious to him.

Claudia continued. “I could do what you did and desert. We could make it work.”

He shook his head and went from reticence to boosting off into a tirade, like a bullet being shot out of a pistol. “You’re sounding utterly foolish right now! Do you truly think it’s easy to up and abandon the shinigami the way I did?! Do you think now that I’ve done so, I live my life as if I’m holiday?! As if . . .” He stumbled on his words, undecided as to where he wanted this to go next. “I . . . Wh . . . What could possibly make you think that could work?! What could possibly make you think life as a reaper—no, a _deserter_ , would be preferable to your life now?! Didn’t we already have this discussion?! Especially now that your name is so well known amongst the shinigami, and you’re involved with me, you’d be in hot water before—”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Claudia interrupted, fed up with Undertaker’s display of panic. She took a deep breath. “I understand your point, I really do, it’s just . . . there’s got to be some way, somehow. If there could just be a way for us to be _equal.”_

Undertaker looked at the floor, his hair falling before his face like a curtain around a hospital bed. His shoulders slumped, defeatedly. “You’re not becoming a reaper. I shan’t allow it.” he muttered. How authoritative.

Claudia scoffed. “Ha! And when has such behavior proven effective towards me?”

He shook his head. “Claudia, be it far from me to even do so much as _try_ to control you, but I draw the line at suicide. I’m not allowing you to end your life, especially with a baby . . . _our_ child on the way.”

A tinge of guilt materialized within Claudia. She felt as if she had been presumptuous, and suddenly, she gained perspective on the situation. “I’m sorry.” she muttered. “I didn’t wish to sound as if our child means nothing to me.” The lady hesitated, loathing the uncomfortable self-disclosure ahead. “I simply . . .” A sharp exhale escaped her lips. Why was this so hard? “I’m unsure if I’m ready for motherhood. My mother died in childbirth, and my father was barely around. I suppose . . . I’ve no frame of reference for what I’m getting myself into. And it frightens me.”

Undertaker grew even more frustrated. “So, in your mind, the sensible alternative is killing yourself, becoming a reaper, and deserting?”

Claudia made a face. “When you say it like that . . .”

“How else can I say it?!” Undertaker exclaimed.

Claudia stammered. “Not . . . like that?”

Undertaker face-palmed. This was going nowhere.

Claudia rubbed her temples. This was going terribly.

“I need you here. Alive.” Undertaker collected himself and knelt next to his beloved again. “Our child needs you alive. Because _someone_ must be there for him. Someone who can always be present in this world. Someone trustworthy. He has no other options. You’ve no siblings, your parents are both deceased, and I _damn_ well don’t trust Victor to do it. Who else do you have? The butler?”

As if on cue, a knock on the door to the soon-to-be-nursery startled the two.

“Hide!” Claudia whispered.

Undertaker obliged, crawling into the closet as quietly as he could.

“Come in!”

It was the new butler, Tanaka, a young man all the way from Japan, who took over for the previous butler after he retired. He was adequate, but had yet to ease into the new position, and everything he did was laden with anxiety. On a few occasions, Claudia had considered slipping drugs into his tea to force him to relax, but decided that such behavior could be construed as abusive. Besides that, the poor young man had already been forced to witness daily quarrels between Claudia and Victor, and most certainly feared walking in on one just now.

He gingerly pushed a teacart inside the room, as his eyes darted from left to right, wondering where the other person Lady Phantomhive was bickering with had gone, before deciding that he had been imagining things. He nervously prattled on about what kind of tea was in store for the Lady Phantomhive this evening, and how it was presumably beneficial for pregnant women (based on shaky logic, but the gesture of caring was not lost on the lady).

Stone-faced, Claudia took the delicate tea-cup and saucer from her new butler, looked him dead in the eye, and asked, “How are you with children?”

Tanaka was taken aback. What kind of question was that? “I like children.” he responded in a soft, indoor voice that was indicative of his background. It seemed like a safe enough response.

Claudia smiled, looking thoroughly pleased. Nonchalantly, she said, “Excellent! I’m glad to hear that. When I die, and I’ll imagine that’ll happen sooner rather than later, do be a good lad and care for mine. They’ll need a fatherly figure in their life, and Victor won’t do.”

Tanaka dropped the teapot and helplessly watched it shatter into a million pieces.

Undertaker, crammed in the closet like a tight bundle of clothing in a suitcase, could do nothing but frown in the dark. He wished to bang his head into the wall.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Nobody will break your fall_

_All for none, yeah, none for all_

_Nothing’s so cruel as the truth_

_Join the Festival of Fools”_

_-The Dream is Dead,_ Type O Negative

 

Victor Dalles was an unfortunate looking man, with an unfortunate soul, caught in unfortunate circumstances. Deep down, Claudia pitied him, despite taking a blatantly sadistic sense of pleasure in his misfortune.

He was short and stocky, fond of cigars, and had prematurely thinning hair that was a bold shade of scarlet. His eyes were dark and practically crimson, which gave him a rather unnerving appearance. His lips were thin and tight, and his skin was so pale, that if one were to shine a light behind him, they could see his heart beating.

Victor often felt overlooked by the fairer sex, and spent most of his life feeling inferior. Despondency eclipsed his dreams of finding true love. upon the rapid decline of his marriage to Claudia.

Truly, fate was far too cruel to him. To be married to a beautiful woman who demonstrated zero empathy or love towards him was unfair. To pretend as if an illegitimate child were his own was harrowing. To know that his wife, whom he felt entitled to, was whoring herself out to an unknown stranger was infuriating. Indeed, Victor was a tragic human being.

******

They were eleven when they first met. Victor, who had paid zero mind to girls at that age, was less than thrilled about his betrothal. Claudia, on the other hand, dreamed of having a handsome man by her side. Winsome fantasies of being on the arm of a dashing husband as a blushing bride occupied her thoughts frequently. Of having children by the dozen, and sipping tea alongside her husband in a whimsical garden as they played in the sunlight.

She meticulously planned her outfit for that day, hurtling abuse at her maid for not tying her corset tight enough, or curling her hair properly. She wanted to look _perfect_ for her first encounter with her future husband, wearing a baby pink frock adorned with ribbons and bows. She resembled a porcelain doll, with fair skin and blue eyes like glass.

Victor stood at the foot of the grand staircase of the Phantomhive manor with his arms folded and his shoulders slumped. He hated this. He didn’t want to marry a girl, he wanted to join the navy and command his own ship. He wanted to journey to Africa and hunt lions and elephants. Or head the other direction and traverse the North Pole, and kill a polar bear. Anything, _anything_ other than spend his time with a silly girl.

His mother, a brutish woman who held a small, white dog in her arms, sneered at her son’s dour disposition. “Victor, do stand up straight! You’ll be in the presence of a lady any minute now! I can’t have you embarrassing me by looking like a curmudgeon.” she spat.

A _what?_ Victor groaned, as if that could reverse the engagement. The wrath of his mother did nothing to alleviate his general hostility. This whole setup was rubbish.

Claudia’s heart accelerated, as if the eleven-year-old girl had just sampled her father’s stash of cocaine. Not to worry, it was only high levels of anxiety that caused her heart to go into overdrive. She examined her appearance in the full-length mirror in her bedchambers, scanning for the slightest imperfections. Perfectly coiffed curls in her hair? Check. Rosy cheeks? Hmm, maybe not rosy enough. She gave them a good pinch. Check. She turned around. The way her skirt swished around her body, like a delicate, pink rose in bloom, was to her liking. Also, the layers and layers of petticoats that added to what little of her rear existed at the time were to her liking.

Her butler peeked his head through the open door, slightly amused at the perfectionistic tendencies of his young mistress. He cleared his throat. “Lady Phantomhive, your _guest_ is here to see you.”

Her face lit up, and her blue eyes sparkled like the ocean. He’s here! Oh god! Okay, it’s happening! Stay calm! Stay calm!

She had rehearsed her entrance almost a thousand times. Gracefully descending the staircase, her eyes never to travel to the steps beneath her. Elegantly turning on the landing, her skirts swishing about, to face her betrothed with an angelic expression of beauty and purity. Another graceful descent, followed by a flawlessly executed curtsy. First impressions were everything.

She tightly gripped the railing, loathing how sweaty her tiny palms were in that moment, and began her first descent. Yes, good, all according to plan. Here comes the landing, the swish, the turn, and . . .

Oh, _shit._

The hell-child at the foot of the staircase appeared to be on the thin, ugly line between an albino and a ginger. His broad shoulders and round body were unsuitable for such a short stature. And good god! What kind of haircut is _that?_ He looked as if his mother used a bowl as a guideline for his hairstyling. He looked as if his mother did _everything_ for him, which became more apparent as Claudia’s eyes traveled to his ensemble. The maroon velvet suit with the lace collar did no favors for his masculinity, nor did the color compliment his hair in the way his mother thought it did. He looked exactly like how Claudia had visualized the antichrist. Surely, this must be a mistake. That can’t be Victor.

Oh, _god._

No, it’s not fair. Girls aren’t supposed to make him feel this way. In theory, Victor knew that girls were supposed to be pretty, but he had never seen one who truly was until that moment. Victor had never been one to be religious, but he praised God, Jesus, and the Devil himself for forcing such a vision into his clutches. The navy could wait. Africa could wait. The North Pole could wait. He suddenly found time for silly girl things in his schedule, all for the sake of Claudia. Tea parties? Absolutely. Picking flowers? Lovely! Playing with dolls? Sounds capital! He would get on his knees and bark like a dog if it pleased the dazzling beauty before him.

The Phantomhive butler cleared his throat. “May I introduce the Lady Claudia Phantomhive, heiress to the Phantomhive household.”

Claudia winced. She was stuck on the landing, frozen. Every fiber of her being wanted to turn around and go right back up that first flight of stairs. Mission abort! Mission abort!

Victor wiped the drool that leaked from his mouth as he admired the statuesque girl, motionless on the stairs. He wanted to liquify this moment and keep it in a bottle.

Claudia’s father grew impatient. “Why don’t you come on down, Claudia?” he suggested with a tinge of irritability. What’s keeping her?

Claudia’s feet moved independently of her brain, and she continued her descent into the depths of Hell, where the pale nightmare in red lay wait. She bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. Maintaining her composure was extraordinarily difficult.

She reached the end of the staircase. Destination: a lifetime of misery.

Her father, standing behind Victor and his mother, urgently gestured a “do-something” motion at her. Oh, blast! The curtsy! Did she _have_ to?

Claudia could stand there and start screaming like a banshee, for all Victor cared. Cupid’s arrow had struck him directly in the brain, granting him total leave of his senses. He grinned at what he believed to be Aphrodite incarnate, revealing a pair of goofy buck-teeth.

Claudia did what any spoiled girl of her age would do, and broke into tears.

******

Victor was utterly love-struck. Every new bit of information revealed about Claudia was like a revelation, sent directly from God (whom Victor promised he would attend church without complaint, in gratitude for the absolute treasure of a fiancée). As it turns out, the Lady Phantomhive was less enamored with tea parties and dolls, but more so with weapons and playing outside. As if she weren’t perfect enough, she preferred boy’s things over girl’s things.

Victor’s future as a loving husband occupied his thoughts more often after that encounter. Dreams of a grand wedding, followed by a three-year honeymoon where he and his soulmate would traverse the globe together. Of having scores of red and blue-haired children. Of _making_ scores of red and blue-haired children. His imagination ran wild as he pondered what Claudia looked like in her corset and pantaloons.

He expressed his undying love for his fiancée in the same way any boy of eleven would—by being an utter nuisance. Victor would terrorize Claudia every time they were within the same proximity, chasing her, throwing things at her, and pulling on her hair. He knew not why he turned into such a pest around her, but provoking her unbridled rage excited him greatly. Perhaps the boy was a masochist in the making.

Claudia got rid of the pink dress. She couldn’t stand the sight of it any longer. Her aversion to that dress soon spread to anything pink. Besides that, deep jewel tones and monochrome flattered her charcoal-colored hair much better. She found that blending into the background during social events lessened her chances of being found (and subsequently tormented) by Victor.

Her dreams of love and marriage had been dashed and divided like a shattered mirror. Gone were the fantasies of being a dutiful wife to a dashing husband. Gone were her hopes and dreams of having beautiful children with a tall, dark, and handsome man. Instead, they were replaced with a base feeling of . . . What is this? Ah, yes. Little Claudia Phantomhive learned what murderous intent feels like.

At the age of thirteen, she accompanied her father on a hunting trip for the first time. Though she was unsuccessful in killing innocent animals for sport, the sensation of firing a gun exhilarated her. By the age of sixteen, she became a rather skilled markswoman. Claudia channeled her feelings of animosity into an interest in weaponry and self-defense.

By the time Victor turned sixteen, he had gone from being an ugly child to being an even uglier teenager. Though he had grown out of his childish methods of being an irritant towards Claudia, those childish methods had only been replaced by more advanced modes of hostility. Throwing things and chasing her down like prey transformed into harsh criticism and verbal abuse. It was a manifestation of what he assumed to be true love, but was more likely a strong sense of entitlement.

******

It was Christmas day, and Claudia’s father welcomed Victor and his mother to the manor with open arms. Naturally, Claudia was displeased with her guests, and was quite vocal about this with her father.

Pretending to listen to her tirade, the Earl Phantomhive sat in his chair with a cigar in one hand and a glass of Christmas punch (which was more alcohol than anything else) in the other. He considered partaking in much stronger, more dangerous vices if it could allow him to better cope with his daughter’s fury.

Claudia slammed a pistol on the desk between her and her father. “Here’s the gun. Just kill me! Do it! It’s time!”

Her father was unamused with his teenage daughter’s theatrics. Seriously? Suicide? “What on earth are you talking about?!” he barked.

“You’ve got to kill me! It’s time!”

Her father burst into a boisterous series of protests, which Claudia argued against simultaneously at equal volume. Everyone inside the manor could hear them.

Claudia continued. Plan A wasn’t working. Time for plan B. “If Victor joins us for Christmas one more time, I _will_ kill myself! No . . . If I am forced to _marry_ Victor, then I’ll kill myself for certain! Mark my words!”

The Earl Phantomhive had enough. “Shut it, Claudia!” he barked. “I’ve had enough of your ill temper! Do you think such behavior is suitable for a lady?!”

Claudia grimaced. “I don’t care—”

“Oh, but you _will_ care, because I said so!” He slammed his now-empty glass on the desk and, despite the great amount of pain in his knee, stood up, looming over his unruly daughter. “As the head of the Phantomhive estate, and as your father, I order you to _not_ kill yourself on Christmas day! Or . . . any day!”

Claudia rolled her eyes. Many feared the current watchdog of the underworld, but Claudia had great difficulty taking her father seriously. Truly, he was one of those types that shouldn’t have become a parent in the first place, but hindsight proved useless for the two of them.

The Earl Phantomhive released a sigh that expressed more than any combination of words could communicate. He placed his hands on his daughter’s shoulders . . . lovingly? Is this what loving fathers do? He was unsure. Perhaps touching her was a bad move. Awkwardly, he moved his hands away from her.

Claudia raised an eyebrow at him. What the hell was he doing?

“I . . .” Claudia’s father began, unsure of where he was taking this. “I’m sorry.”

Claudia’s face twisted in bewilderment. Her father? Sorry? She snorted. “Don’t make me laugh.”

He raised his hand in acknowledgement. “No, no. I’m . . . sorry . . . that you must marry Victor. He’s a thoroughly unpleasant boy, and you deserve better. But . . . well . . . we _all_ must do things that we wish not to do. After all, I didn’t wish to marry your mother when I was a boy.”

Claudia folded her arms. “Fortunately for you, she died. Funny how things work out.”

Her father had no inkling as to how to respond to that. Hell, even the most compassionate, emotionally aware, and communicative father would have difficulty responding to that.

Claudia continued her vituperation. “Do you wish the same upon me? That I’ll die?” A scoff escaped her lips. “Don’t hesitate to say yes. I wish the same fate upon myself.”

Claudia’s father didn’t know whether to be hurt or concerned or something else entirely. “No . . . Claudia, I do _not_ want you to die.” He sounded less than convincing.

This was going dreadfully. The Earl Phantomhive needed an escape from this. He scoured his mind for some way to appease his daughter, if only for the moment. “Claudia . . . dearest . . . listen to me . . .”

 “What?” she muttered darkly. Her father was grateful she was presently unarmed, for her tone sounded as if she were on the brink of committing patricide.

“I want to give you your Christmas present early.” he responded weakly. Really? That was the best he could do?

Claudia slammed her eyes shut and exhaled sharply. “Unless it’s a reversal of my engagement to Victor, or you’re about to put a bullet through me, I’m uninterested.”

“No,” he responded sheepishly. “it’s . . . something else.”

Claudia’s father presented her with a large, velvet box. “I didn’t get the opportunity to wrap it, but . . . I want you to have these.”

Claudia took the box and opened it, immediately awed at its contents. “Father . . .” she whispered. “Are you certain?”

Inside were two rings in emerald and azure. The rings of her mother and father’s families, respectively.

“One is for you, the other is for your husband. It’s time I pass these down to you.”

Claudia removed the gleaming blue Phantomhive ring from the box, and placed it on her left ring finger. Nope, too big. She tried her left index finger. There we go! A perfect fit. “Thank you.” she whispered.

Her father exhaled a sigh of relief. “I’m pleased that you like it.”

Claudia looked up from her left hand at her father. “I have a present for you, too. Just give me a moment to go and get—”

The Phantomhive butler cleared his throat, startling both the father and daughter. “Forgive the interruption, but Lady Dalles and her son, Victor, have arrived.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!! Sorry it's been a minute since I posted another chapter for this story. Midterms have been kicking my ass, but I'm going to try and update as regularly as possible.
> 
> I hope you all are liking this fic!! I wanted to add more backstory to Victor and touch on his history with Claudia. Also, I get a kick out of writing teenage angst and good ol' fashioned dysfunctional family relationships. (After all, the Phantomhives are a cursed family, right?)


	5. Chapter 5

_“Arrows fester in my heart_

_Each memory another dart_

_Love and death both colored red_

_Showing my past, the dream is dead”_

_-The Dream is Dead,_ Type O Negative

 

Victor stood at the foot of the grand staircase of the Phantomhive manor, the epicenter of his betrothal, with a small velvet box in his hand. “Today, I’m going to tell her that I love her, mother.”

His mother, who had been preoccupied with the small dog in her arms, narrowed her gaze at her son as he spoke. “Do try and not make a fool of yourself, Victor.”

Victor gulped, endeavoring to maintain his high spirits. “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

Claudia’s father had his arms folded, struggling to disregard the pain in his knee and the anxiety in his chest. He could say nothing, but he smiled and nodded at the poor soul. He wanted to die.

Victor’s mother scoffed and turned her attention back to the small dog in her arms, whom she demonstrated more love towards than her only son. It was no matter. Victor was feeling confident. They had been engaged since they were eleven, and Claudia always returned his pursuits with ire and umbrage, so certainly she must share his feelings, right?

Claudia descended the staircase, wearing a deep, green frock that was highly appropriate for yuletide festivities. It had a full, round skirt, forcing those around her to give her a wide berth as she moved about (which was her favorite aspect of the frock). Behind the skirt, she held her father’s Christmas present. “Victor.” she tersely muttered in greeting.

“Claudia.” Victor politely bowed at the lady before him. “You look raddishing today.”

Claudia tossed her head back and gave a wicked laugh. “You idiot! Are you implying that I resemble a vegetable?!”

Claudia’s father was mortified. “Claudia! Do control yourself!”

Victor’s mother turned her disgruntlement towards her son, in her usual fashion. “You fool! It’s _ravishing,_ not raddishing. Honestly, have I not taught you any better, stupid boy?”

Claudia snorted as she broke into a chorus of ugly guffaws. “Oh, it’s no matter! After all, it takes a vegetable to know a vegetable, _carrot!”_

Victor scowled. “Do shut up, you vile woman!” he spat. This was getting off to a great start.

That earned another tongue-lashing from his mother. Likewise, Claudia received another scold from her father. The Phantomhive butler cradled his forehead in his hands. He didn’t get paid enough for this shit. He released a preemptive sigh before lifting his head back up and diffusing the situation. “Ladies! Gentleman! Please! Can’t we all simply get along? It’s Christmas, after all.”

The conflict temporarily subsided as the group of nobles looked down in shame. To be scolded by the butler for such unruly behavior . . .

The butler was pleased with his actions, for now. “If you’ll excuse me, I must check on our chef to see how dinner preparations are coming along.” He briskly exited the room, wiping the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief.

Victor cleared his throat, being the first to break the uncomfortable silence that permeated the situation. “Claudia, may I . . .” The words couldn’t come out.

Claudia rested her hand on her hip, keeping her father’s Christmas present behind her skirt. “What do you want?” she groaned, inconvenienced by Victor’s request for more of her attention.

“M-May I take your hand?” Victor offered his.

“Is this a joke?” Naturally, Claudia was skeptical.

“Take his hand, Claudia.” the Earl Phantomhive ordered.

Claudia begrudgingly offered her left hand, the Phantomhive ring catching the light and glimmering like the Atlantic Ocean.

Victor’s eyes widened at the gaudy piece of jewelry. He had seen it before, but where? No matter, it had to go, regardless of its origin. “Claudia, remove that vulgar piece of jewelry.” Victor sneered. “If you would indulge me.” he added, hoping it would make him sound polite.

Claudia tried to pull her dainty hand away, but, like a boa constrictor ensnaring its prey, Victor squeezed it. “I want that thing _gone!_ It has no place on your hands! Especially hands that are so fragile and childlike!”

Claudia glowered. _“Childlike?!_ Do you dare infantilize me, Victor?!”

The Earl Phantomhive was cringing. Between the dull pain in his knee, and the calamitous situation that surrounded him, he increasingly wished—no, _prayed_ for death to befall him.

Victor’s mother simply scratched her dog’s chin. This type of scene was not out of the ordinary for the beastly woman, who specialized in conflict and abuse in the way an artist might with oils or clay.

Victor’s chubby, perspiring hands were like meaty claws as they worked to pry the Phantomhive ring from Claudia’s left index finger. She felt as if he were about to break them. “Victor, let go of me!”

“No!”

“You’re hurting me!” Claudia cried.

The two struggled with no interference from the weary earl and the indifferent (and slightly amused) noblewoman.

Claudia could take no more of this. If she could free her hand from Victor’s rigid grasp, she could perhaps administer a back-handed slap with her left hand, using the Phantomhive ring to her added benefit of causing more hardship to her fiancé. (No wonder this ring is so beloved in her family!) However, freeing her left hand from Victor’s clutches proved impossible, so she opted for her right.

In it was an ornate swordstick she had intended to gift to her father for Christmas. Since injuring his knee a few months ago, he faced a great amount of difficulty with walking. Claudia wanted to do what she could to alleviate her father’s pain, but knew he wouldn’t accept an ordinary cane, for fear of being thought of as crippled. She had hoped that purchasing a swordstick instead of a cane would sway his opinion on the matter.

_THWACK!_

Victor fell to his knees, clutching the back of his head as he wailed and sobbed uncontrollably. What the hell just happened?!

Claudia’s father looked as if he witnessed an atrocity. Victor’s mother laughed hysterically at her son’s misfortune.

Claudia removed the sword from its sheath, a savage expression crossing her face as she did so. Leave it to Claudia Phantomhive to commit homicide on Christmas day.

Before she could strike, a gloved hand grasped her wrist, preventing her from doing so. “My Lady,” It was the butler. “it would be rude to test your father’s Christmas present before he’s allowed the chance to do so himself.”

Claudia’s eyes, a deep blue like the sky just after dusk, widened at the interruption. “Right . . . my apologies . . .”

The Earl Phantomhive was taken aback. That was his present?!

******

Claudia was obligated to make an appearance at the Dalles estate when Victor’s mother lay on her deathbed. She said little, but felt joyful on the inside. Lady Dalles was an insufferable woman. And her son in a state of grief and sorrow? An added bonus.

She winced at her malice as she sat on a chaise lounge outside of Lady Dalles’ bedchambers. Was this . . . empathy? No, of course not. Not for Victor. Perhaps it was something else. Perhaps it was merely pity.

She reflected on her father’s old age. Truly, she resented him for her lonesome, dreadful childhood, and yet . . . she would miss him when he was gone. Though he was neglectful and careless as a father, there were still times where he was okay.

When he had enough whiskey in him, he’d get quite talkative, and suddenly strike up an interest in bonding with his only daughter. He’d confess to her how his marriage to her mother was only out of a sense of duty, and how he truly preferred the company of men over women. How he felt guilty for his preferences, and not being more involved in his daughter’s life. Such things were troubling for Claudia to hear at first, but his mere confiding in her made it worth it. It made her feel . . . special.

Perhaps Victor’s mother did something for her son to make him feel special, too. There must have been instances, somewhere between his mother’s enmity and derision, of serenity and warmth, like the eye of a great storm. Perhaps she gave more of herself than she let on to Claudia. For all she knew, perhaps that sweet, innocent, little dog she held was for Victor all along.

Claudia fiddled with the Phantomhive ring, admiring the jewel in the same way her predecessors had during times of contemplation. Though she could never find it within her to love Victor romantically, perhaps it would be to her benefit to strike up a platonic relationship with him. Or to at least offer him some sympathy in his darkest hour. Was it too late to make amends?

******

Victor sat by hs mother's side as she was on the verge of death. They said little to one another. What could be said? I hate you? A slow, agonizing death would be far too merciful for you? You’re a fat, slovenly pig, a waste of space, and a leech on society as a whole? Far too kind for the less than amicable parting.

Her soul was collected at 11:07 PM, on February 14, 1849. No further comments from the grim reapers on her life contributions. Lady Dalles was dead.

Victor shed no tears, but emitted no laughter either. He was dumbfounded. Wasn’t one supposed to be distraught over the death of one’s mother? He was numb to her passing, feeling no emotion as his mother lie dead in her bed, her dog sniffing at her desperately for any signs of life. Perhaps the dog was the only living creature who was distressed by the loss of its master.

The dog . . .

******

Claudia was spooked by Victor’s sudden exit from his mother’s bedchambers, small dog in hand. His other hand rested on something in his coat pocket, but Claudia didn’t quite get a good enough glimpse at what it was.

“Victor?” she inquired as she stood to follow him. “What happened?” For the first time in her life, she felt something other than disgust at her betrothed. She felt sorry for the poor bastard.

Victor said nothing, but continued walking with purpose. The dog began to writhe about in his arms, but proved no match for the corpulent man who corralled it effortlessly.

He exited his manor and entered the garden, as Claudia continued to follow him, asking questions with more persistence. He paid her no mind as he made his way to the garden by the manor.

“Victor, where are you going? What about your mother, Victor? What happened?” Claudia rattled off question after question, stumbling over her words like the uneven ground beneath her. It was dark. What was he doing?

Victor continued to disregard her as he searched for the ideal spot to carry out the task he had impulsively planned. He found an appropriate patch of lilies at the edge of the garden. The scent of the wispy night air around him evoked a melancholy sense of guilt within him, that he promptly ignored.

Claudia stood motionless before her fiancé, the dog (who had been carelessly tossed to the ground like a piece of rubbish,), and the patch of lilies that surrounded them. The scene was starting to unfurl, and she could do nothing but stand inert, horrified.

Victor pulled a pistol from his coat pocket.

“Oh my god . . . you _monster_ . . .” Claudia whispered, either to herself or to Victor, whoever would listen.

Victor cocked the pistol, and aimed it at the helpless creature before him. Every time he laid his eyes upon it, he only saw his mother’s ferocity and cold-heartedness. The wretched cur before him represented nothing but his stolen childhood and memories of humiliation by his mother.

“Victor, no!” Claudia cried, as if her protests could change his mind.

The sounds of multiple gunshots echoed throughout the estate, audible to every living being on the premises, followed by the shrieks of a traumatized Claudia. Scarlet blood splattered all over the pure white lilies that gently swayed in the nocturnal breeze. Startled by the noise, a murder of crows fled from the garden, taking flight into the night sky above.

 As if he were walking a tightrope, Victor Dalles found the line between being an arsehole and a sociopath. Claudia chose to never forgive him for such a deplorable act, and their one chance at reconciling had vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the first half of this chapter seems familiar, it's because I was heavily referencing the scene with Ciel and Lizzy (where Ciel almost hits Lizzy for breaking his ring) at the beginning of the series. Of course, Claudia and Victor didn't quite resolve their conflict in the way Ciel and Lizzy did.
> 
> I borrowed a lot from both Ciel and Lizzy's personalities to write Claudia. She can be quite ruthless and sinister, but there's definitely a streak of compassion underneath all that. And she can be quite spoiled, of course. I'd like to think she was unruly and dramatic as a teenager as well.
> 
> I was pretty drunk when I wrote this chapter. I guess drunk me decided to end this flashback on an Old Yeller situation. Sorry, for anyone who's sad over the dog. If it's any consolation, the dog is probably one of the few characters in this fic that doesn't wind up in Hell or as a grim reaper after they die.


	6. Chapter 6

_“Sol in prime sweet summertime,_

_Cast shadows of doubt on my face._

_A midday sun, its caustic hues,_

_Refracting within the still lake._

_I’m the green man_

_The green man.”_

_-Green Man,_ Type O Negative

Claudia’s son was born on a Friday the thirteenth, in June of 1851. There had yet to be a word in the English language that could describe the amalgam of emotions Undertaker experienced on the day his son was born. Similarly, he was at a loss for a word that could describe the burning jealousy he felt upon finding out that Victor was granted the privilege of holding the baby first. Likewise, a word that could describe the excruciating sorrow he felt upon not being present for the birth of his son had yet to exist.

Claudia felt like rubbish. Childbirth was agonizing and tiresome. She needed to rest.

Undertaker managed to sneak into the manor in his usual fashion during the dead of the night, careful not to wake Victor as he slipped past his bedroom to the nursery, where Claudia sat awake holding her newborn child.

She was in no mood to be seen by anyone else but her beloved. She was without makeup, her hair was mussed, she had yet to bathe, and she wore a simple nightgown and robe. None of that mattered. When Undertaker quietly entered the nursery, he thought he had seen a goddess of beauty and fertility, sitting in a rocking chair and holding their infant.

Undertaker was unable to vocalize his feelings, much less utter a simple, “Hello,” before he broke into tears of joy that plummeted from his vibrant eyes like a downpour in London. He rushed to Claudia’s side and kneeled (a position he found himself in more often these days), barely able to make out what was before him due to his tears and already hazy vision.

The child had his mother’s sapphire eyes, which were wide like blue saucers at the overwhelming newness of everyone and everything that surrounded him. A thin layer of soft, dark hairs sprouted from his scalp like a summertime meadow, it’s tall grass waving through the gentle wind in mesmerizing patterns. A beauty mark dotted his face, next to his left eye, like the first star to shine at dusk. The child gazed at his father, unblinking, and writhed around a little, wishing to free his arms to touch his father’s face.

Through her pain and exhaustion, Claudia was beaming. “His name is Vincent. Vincent Phantomhive.”

A snicker escaped Undertaker’s lips. “He won’t be taking Victor’s last name, either?”

“Oh, _god_ no.” Claudia snorted. “Victor had no complaints. He knows just as well as I do that’s not his son.”

She neglected to mention that Victor chose Vincent’s name, since Claudia had yet to come to a decision on the baby’s name by the time he was born. Knowing that Claudia wouldn’t allow the baby to take his father’s last name, Victor chose to name it after himself as petty retaliation. Perhaps it was a compromise.

A frown marred Undertaker’s face. Talk of Victor was ruining this beautiful moment, and the closeness between Victor and Vincent’s names unnerved him. However, he was determined to keep his first encounter with his son a joyful experience, so he opted to change the subject. “I like Vincent. It’s a good name.”

“As I’ve said before, I would have preferred to name him after you. Alas, a child by the name of _Undertaker Phantomhive_ would most certainly raise some eyebrows, at the very least.”

Undertaker shrugged. “For all I know, my name could have been Vincent. You know as much as I do on the subject.”

Claudia tenderly rubbed her thumb along the baby’s soft, chubby cheek. “Would you like to hold him?”

“Need you ask?”

Undertaker cradled his treasure in his arms and almost didn’t notice it at first— _almost._ The lack of heat that emanated from Vincent’s otherwise lively body was great cause for concern. “He’s cold. Why is he so cold?”

“Because he’s yours.”

“That makes no sense.”

“That makes perfect sense, my darling. You’re dead, remember?”

Undertaker was determined not to spoil this moment, and chose to diffuse the situation with a joke. “I’m only _mostly_ dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive.”

“However you wish to rationalize it.”

The two spent the next few hours fawning over their child and one another. Eternal rest was overrated. This was bliss.

Vincent fell asleep in his father’s arms, and was placed in his cradle like a delicate jewel in a velvet box. His parents loomed over him, beaming.

Undertaker gave his beloved a gentle kiss on her forehead. “He’s my treasure, Claudia.” he whispered. “And so are you.”

Claudia’s face lit up. “That reminds me,” she began, springing into action and heading towards a nearby dresser. “I have something for you.”

Undertaker was perplexed. What more could he want? “What is it?” he inquired, his voice barely audible, so as not to wake the baby.

Claudia placed something cold and hard in Undertaker’s hand. “I wish we could do this the proper way.” she lamented. “A proper wedding, with proper rings, and a proper ceremony.”

Undertaker opened his palm to see a ring, similar in cut and style to the Phantomhive ring. The jewel placed in the center was not blue, but a brilliant shade of green that complimented the eyes of the former shinigami rather nicely. “What is this?” Undertaker inquired.

“Like me, my mother was an only child. An only daughter. Her father had no one else to pass the family ring down to. Likewise, as an only daughter, I received the family rings, with the intention that one of them be gifted to my future husband.”

“So . . . this is Victor’s ring?” Undertaker had great difficulty following where Claudia was going with this.

“Don’t’ make me laugh. It’s yours.”

An expression of mild amusement crossed Undertaker’s face. _“I’m_ your husband? My memory _must_ be going by the wayside for certain. I’ve no recollection of our wedding ceremony. Was it fun? Did we have cake?”

Claudia endeavored not to giggle helplessly while her infant slept with such ease. “If only that were the case.” She continued, “No, I wish for you to have my mother’s ring. It was given to me with the intention of being gifted to my husband, and while we may not be married in the eyes of the law, in our hearts, we most certainly are.”

Undertaker placed it on the index finger of his left hand, exactly where Claudia wore the Phantomhive ring on her own hand, and admired the way the forest-colored stone reflected the surrounding light so magnificently. “Claudia, nothing gives me greater happiness than calling myself the father of your child, let alone your husband.”

Claudia was not done with her speech yet. “For generations, my mother’s family and my father’s family had been allies in policing England’s underworld. Naturally, when the opportunity of arranging a marriage between the two families presented itself, my parents kindly obliged.” Claudia paused and bit her lip, a sense of bitterness befalling her. “It cost my mother her life. Producing an heir, that is. I feared I would fall victim to the same fate when Vincent was born, but . . . I’m alive. I feel like rubbish, but I’m alive.”

Claudia needed to pause again, readying herself for consuming a hearty dish of humble pie. “I was wrong, Undertaker. And you were right. I _need_ to stay alive. I owe it to my son to give him a better childhood than I was granted. If I were to leave this earth behind, then he would be doomed to the same fate I was. He would grow to adulthood in despair and isolation, as I did. I cannot allow that.”

Undertaker caressed Claudia’s face, his hands as cold the ninth circle of Hell on Claudia’s igneous skin. “Evidently, I lied earlier. Nothing would give me greater happiness than knowing you’re alive, and wish to remain so.”

They kissed with great love, passion, and tenderness; their emotions swirling within them like a roaring, indomitable inferno that consumed their hearts and minds.

_TAP! TAP! TAP!_ A crow pecked at the window next to the crib impatiently. _“CAW! CAW!”_ he crowed at the top of his lungs.

Vincent awoke with a start, and began wailing.

******

Much in the fashion of Claudia’s father, Victor was hardly around, but when he was, he gradually introduced little Vincent to the life of an earl. Though he knew for certain that Vincent was not his biological son, he continued to keep that information private, and often used this predicament as leverage against Claudia.

Vincent accompanied Victor on his journeys throughout the land and village owned by the Phantomhives as he made his rounds, checking up on the people who lived and worked on their land. Later, he would begrudgingly relay that information to Claudia to the best of his memory, who would then take charge and handle any issues that arose accordingly. It was as symbiotic as their relationship got.

Undertaker spent every spare moment of his to care for his young son. Walking, talking, eating, and other basic skills necessary to being a functional human being were taught through the death god. Each night possible, he read bedtime stories (that were almost completely lost on the toddler), until he fell asleep. Despite Undertaker’s funereal appearance, Vincent never shied away from the death god. He was as bold as his mother.

Though, through careful planning, Undertaker never interacted with Victor, he did interact with Tanaka quite frequently. Per Claudia’s orders, Tanaka mentioned nothing of Undertaker’s presence to Victor. The poor butler was caught between the Lord and Lady of the manor, and felt as if he were being pulled in two directions. However, he feared Claudia much more than he feared Victor, so his loyalty was slightly skewed in her favor. Ultimately, his loyalty lied with Vincent, and every action he took worked toward Vincent’s benefit. He found solace in laughter and a nice cup of gyokuro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t really find a suitable Type O Negative song that would work with this chapter, so I chose Green Man, because, hey, the color green is heavily associated with Undertaker (and the shinigami in general, but I’ll always associate it with Undertaker and his lovely eyes first and foremost). Furthermore, amongst many things, the green man is thought to symbolize the changing of seasons (A.K.A. the passage of time), the cycle of life and death, and fertility (all of which can totally be related to UT and Claudia). Also, the color green is often used to symbolize envy, which is most certainly something that pops up throughout this story. 
> 
> Anyway, sorry this chapter is so short. I’ve been so busy with school these days. (It’s my last year as an undergrad, and then I get to start worrying about grad school. Also, I've been depressed, so there's that.) I can assure you, however, longer chapters are in store for the future!! 
> 
> (Also yeah, I put a Princess Bride reference in this chapter. I couldn't help myself.)


End file.
